


Tarantism

by ponderinfrustration



Series: Always Be There [8]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Angst, Dancing, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 17:59:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9914348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: Erik can't sleep because he can feel the melancholia coming on, so he asked the Persian to dance with him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt sent to me by hopsjollyhigh which read "Tarantism - The urge to overcome melancholy by dancing."

He needs to dance, needs to move, needs to do _something_ other than lie here another day. The itch is in his fingers to get up, to find music, somewhere, anywhere! He’s been in bed too long, he can feel it, that tightness in his gut warns him of it, the trembling in his heart. Too still, too long, they’ll get him, they will they—

“Erik.” Rahim’s voice is gentle, hoarse from sleep, and Erik shifts, just enough to turn his head, and meet those jade eyes, soft in the darkness. “Erik, what is it? Is it a nightmare?”

He has never been any good at putting it into words, at describing the trembling that follows the numbness. He was numb yesterday, and thought it was weakness from his illness and nothing more, but he’s trembling now, and if he waits much longer he won’t be able to do much of anything, except curl up as small as he can and try to hide on the voices that insist on pounding in his mind.

Rahim’s eyes widen, and he breathes a soft “ah”, then reaches out and squeezes Erik’s fingers. “Is it…one of those times?”

Bless Rahim and how easy he makes it! Tears sting Erik’s eyes, and he nods slowly, his heart aching.

“All right. Do you want your violin?”

The violin? No, the violin is no good to him now. “No,” he sighs, and Rahim’s face softens, relieved to hear him speak because has so often fallen silent at these times. He needs to move, not lie here plucking his violin strings. That will only bring the melancholia on faster, but if he moves, if he dances… “Will you…will you dance with me, Rahim?” If Rahim dances with him, holds him close, he will not fall apart. He knows that with bone-deep certainty, and Rahim will ease the tightness inside of him, will soothe him, and then they can return to bed, and everything will be all right again.

Rahim swallows, and nods. “Are you certain you’re strong enough?” And the worry is clear in his voice still, and Erik cannot blame him for it, not after the last few weeks. He is not quite certain himself that he is strong enough, but he needs to be.

* * *

 

Rahim does not approve of Erik leaving his bed so soon. He has been so ill for so long that surely he needs more rest, and he still has trouble staying awake for more than a handful of hours at a time. But for all that he does not approve, he does understand. He knows how Erik is – by now he would want to. When he is still for too long his mind stagnates, turns in on itself and reminds him of how things used to be, once upon a time. And tonight, tonight Rahim can see the shadows of those days in his eyes, can see the blood and the dust and the pain. And so though he does not want Erik to wear himself out, he understands why he needs to get up and dance.

Still, there is no reason why they should be careless about it.

He helps Erik into his dressing gown, and leads him into the drawing room. Darius is asleep, or at least should be by now, and so they need to be careful not to disturb him. Erik will not confess to weakness, not tonight when he needs this, but when he leans against the table with the phonograph to balance himself, Rahim cannot help a check of worry in his heart.

Violin music fills the room, soft and slow, a composition of Erik’s own that he went to a lot of trouble to record on a wax cylinder, and Rahim fights to suppress a chuckle as he wraps an arm around Erik’s waist, and takes his hand. He spent all night recording this piece, fighting to get the volume right and minimise distortion. It was the most frustrated he had ever seen him, and he stormed out of his office, swore that recording would ruin the artistry of the piece, and his French was so fast that Rahim struggled to catch up with him.

Eventually he calmed down, and got the recorder working the way he liked it, and has not had a moment’s difficulty with it since, but it is a memory that Rahim secretly treasures.

Erik sighs, bringing Rahim back to this moment, to this dance to chase the melancholy away, and brushes his lips gently against Rahim’s forehead. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice still hoarse as they sway to the melody. The music is coming to a close, but they will not need it much longer, will be able to dance like this to the memory of it, and Rahim tightens his grip around Erik.

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, presses his lips gently to Erik’s throat. “I’m just happy so long as it helps,” and he looks up into Erik’s eyes, the gold tint of them a little brighter now, and smiles.


End file.
